


Of Secrets and Fortunes

by Florrama



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Magic, Romance, Witch AU, fortune teller AU, tensiionnnn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 04:20:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20401573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Florrama/pseuds/Florrama
Summary: Hiding in plain sight, Elain uses her seer abilities to amaze the people that attend the travelling circus. But then the new performer arrives, and fro the first time in years, even when hiding in the shadows, Elain feels truly seen.And she can't get him off her mind.--AKA I read the Night Circus.





	Of Secrets and Fortunes

Elain's fingers dance across the crystal ball in front of her, barely skimming the surface, creating and weaving a myth. A part of the act is guiding the customer towards convincing themselves. Neither she nor the man across from her see anything in the ball - no images, no visions, not even a wisp of smoke or a spark of magic. But the customer wants to believe that the ball is the key to a successful future - so who is Elain to tell them otherwise?

The other part is threading truth between the lies. Elain can't be certain if he will meet his love in the next year, though she vaguely tells him to keep an eye out, and when he asks about a promotion, she simply tells him to keep working hard, remain determined, rather than informing him that she knows nothing about his workplace. But a brief closing of her eyes and Elain does know that he will have a son within the next two years, and the one specific among several vague answers is enough to satisfy. The ball may be a complete lie, but Elain is no con. And _most_ would agree.

Her lips slowly spread into what she hopes is an enigmatic smile, made even more mysterious by the sheer veil covering her features. At first, she had presumed that the veil was the circus’ way of trying to protect her identity, but it hadn’t taken her long to realise it was purely for show, and manipulation. The sheerness is tantalising, allowing each customer a glimpse of the beauty beneath – the curl of red lips, the flutter of dark lashes, the curve of her jaw. They always return, two, maybe three times, always seeking to wonder at the woman before them.

Elain wishes she could tear it to shreds.

As soon as the customer leaves, self-satisfied and eager to test the next tent, Elain immediately leaps from her seat, flipping the sign to closed and pulling the tent shut. She wouldn’t usually shut so early, only an hour past midnight, stars still bright in the sky, but business had been quiet, and she has no desire to remain in her costume longer than necessary.

Pulling off the veil always comes first, hastily lifted and tucked into the chest by her mat. It doesn’t take her long to swap the garish costume for something more subtle, and within minutes she is tugging on gloves, adjusting the hat on her head, and slipping out of the tent and into the constantly flowing crowd.

Elain intimately understands the fascination with the circus. No matter how many times she closes early to explore, she always finds something new that takes her breath away. It may essentially be run by con men and thieves, exempting Elain and Feyre, but she can’t deny their skills nor their flare for the dramatic. Elain’s own tent is surrounded by lanterns, silks and lace hanging from between each post - but it has nothing on the main courtyard. A large marble statue stands in the middle, surrounded by flowers that almost seem to change colour in the light, while lanterns of every colour line pathways that extend off into the sea of tents. Fireworks burst over head in a sea of glitter and sparks, closely followed by gasps and cheers. Elain easily navigates the crowds, smiling at children that look to the skies in awe, heading towards the mind-reading tent with swirls of yellow and black.

But then the crowd suddenly surges in the opposite direction, and Elain struggles to fight against the current. She looks back to Feyre’s tent briefly, knowing that if she doesn’t seek her sister out now, it’ll likely be days before she sees her again – but curiosity wins out, and Elain whispers a quick apology before drifting in the direction of the amazed.

The tent they approach is relatively non-descript, dark with a few specks of silver and cobalt here and there to capture any and all attention – though Elain imagines the subtle nature of this tent compared to the rest is what truly draws the people towards it.

At least, that’s what she presumes until she sees the man inside.

He must be a new performer, because she has never seen him before. The man stands tall, tanned, and clothed in dark tunic and trousers, but while she can’t resist wondering what his chest looks like beneath – sculpted, if the shapes along his sleeves are any indication – Elain is drawn to his neutral expression. His lips, full, pull into a tight line as he analyses the crowd building around him, eyes scanning, flitting from person to person. They skim past her, and Elain can’t stop the swell of disappointment in her chest. The one person she doesn’t want to be overlooked by, and he does just that.

Despite wanting to push towards the front, as close to the performer as possible, Elain decides to stick towards the back, behind the seated audience and half in the safety of the shadows. He shifts, bowing his head and widening his stance, and the audience falls silent. Elain herself holds her breath, and she feels her fingers clench in her skirts at the sight of the inky strands falling across his forehead.

Then his lips tug into a slight smirk, eyes meeting hers, and Elain is lost.

A part of her, small, hidden, cowardly, wants to leave, return to the safe confines of her tent and forget the man before her – but her legs won’t move, and her heart won’t stop beating in her chest.

“Aren’t you going to tell us what you do?” A deep voice yells from amongst the audience, and while many peer around each other to find the source, Elain watches the performer. He nods, before walking a few steps in the direction of the voice. Though walking really is the wrong word for it – he is graceful, but the power and pure strength behind each step leaves Elain wondering why on Earth he’s only performing in some circus.

“Mister Roberts, am I correct?”

“Why yes, sir.” Elain chances a glance at Roberts who, rather than finding the man’s knowledge of his identity unnerving, sits proudly in his seat, spine ramrod straight and expression smug.

The man smiles in return, but Elain notices the slight bitterness to the expression – one she is all too familiar with, working with the clientele she often must.

“I imagine you had quite some difficulty choosing who to bring tonight.”

Roberts’ eyes widen, and his hand gips tighter at his cane.

“I’m not quite sure-“

“I am quite inclined to pity poor Margaret, although I certainly pity your wife more.”

Elain watches in morbid fascination as the woman in the next seat along slowly stands, not sparing Roberts another glance, her anger and embarrassment radiating off her in waves. He watches and sputters, standing so quickly his chair almost rocks back, while the man observes with his previous neutral expression – though it doesn’t verge on boredom like Elain is so used to seeing. She can sense the slight anger underneath, and the alertness of a man practiced in the art of observation.

“Who do you think you are?” Roberts’ voice raises an octave as he points aggressively in the direction of the stage. But the man simply stands straighter, arms clasped behind his back.

“I deal in secrets Mister Roberts. Perhaps that will teach you a lesson in patience.”

She expects him to be staring Roberts into the ground, but instead his eyes meet hers again, and the sound of her heartbeat smothers the sound of the audience whispering in awe.

Elain leaves before she can become the victim of his tricks, and it takes all of her will power to do so.

“You’re awfully skittish at the moment.”

Elain jumps at the sound of Feyre’s voice, only to frown at the _I told you so_ smirk tugging at her lips.

“Did you know there’s a new performer here? Quite the show, I heard.”

“Feyre.” Elain hisses, swatting her sister slightly on the arm. “You promised you wouldn’t read me.” It was a pact they’d sworn very early: that Elain would never tell Feyre of her future, no matter how miserable or joyful the vision was, and Feyre would never read Elain’s thoughts. Though, clearly, it was no binding contract.

Feyre simply shrugs, setting the teacup down on the table, eyeing the gaudy table cloth briefly.

“I can’t help it if you’re practically shouting your thoughts at me, you know that.” Elain stands and pulls the tent flap to the side, peering through the gap. It’s not quite opening time yet, but she can’t help watching the workers flit past with growing disappointment. As silly as the notion is, she had been hoping the man would pay a visit. But then again, maybe she was just over-thinking a measly bit of eye contact. “He must be something if he’s all you can think about.”

Protesting is useless at this point. Even if Feyre couldn’t read her obviously extremely loud thoughts of pining and disappointment, she’d still be able to read her like an open book – with a very large font, and diagrams too. She can feel the flush on her cheeks, and it doesn’t help that she can’t keep still either.

“He was just…” Elain begins, tugging on a strand of hair as she bites at her bottom lip. Even though she’d been thinking about him and his skillset for days, he was still hard to put into words. “Enchanting. He knew that man’s secrets, Feyre. And the way he commanded the audience? I could feel my heart in my chest.”

“And he’s good looking too?” Elain doesn’t have to look at Feyre to know she’s grinning. It causes the corners of Elain’s lips to tilt upwards in return.

“God, yes.” She breaths, earning a snort from Feyre. Elain’s smile widens. “Tall, dark, and handsome. And the shapes under his shirt? Sinful, Feyre. _Sin – ful.” _Feyre outright laughs at the enunciation of the word, and Elain follows in suit. “I’m a mess. I keep telling myself it’s because his skills unnerved me, but truthfully, I’m just fascinated. In awe, even.” She pauses, watching her fingers pick at the lace table cloth. “I wonder if Nesta chose him.”

“Potentially.” Feyre shrugs, circling the rim of the teacup with her finger. “But who knows? The founders have had her busy running errands and keeping things in check, I doubt we’ll see her soon.” After a moment of shared silence, Feyre stands, brushing down the front of her skirts and smiling softly at Elain. “I better be off. If I’m not at my tent when the circus open, I imagine they’ll have my head. Stay safe, I love you.”

“Love you too.” Elain smiles after her, slouching in her seat. By the time Feyre would have made it back to her tent, and most likely gotten into costume, Elain sits in front of a mirror, cracked down the centre, pulling the veil over her features. She cringes as the material scrapes against her skin, hating how the sight of it makes her shiver and her stomach twist. It doesn’t help that her costumes are made to entice, either; always off the shoulder, baring her neck and shoulders, and always made to accentuate her figure. Worn in daily life society would almost collapse at the slightly sensual – for the lack of a better (polite) word – dress, but here, amongst the outcasts and entertainment, it is accepted, even loved. Her only reprieve is that she gets to choose the colour. Tonight it is cobalt, though she wont admit to herself why exactly she was drawn to the shade.

Her headache has returned in full force, and it takes all her effort not to close her eyes and rest as her third client of the evening rambles on about their daughter’s marriage and their son’s career. It’s a small relief when the woman finally leaves, and Elain does close her eyes – only for a second – fingers slipping under the veil to massage her temple.

A soft cough has her startled, sitting as straight as possible in her chair.

At the sight of the customer, she wonders if she is, in fact, asleep, and if this is a dream.

“Hello.” He speaks, and Elain swears she melts.

His voice is softer now, gentle, though his face is no less guarded. His eyes flicker around the small tent, taking in the candles and the incense, as well as the bright silks that hang from the ceiling. At last his eyes land on her, and she is suddenly aware of how absurd she must look, veiled and draped in silk, jewels in her curled hair. But his eyes soften, and he slowly takes the seat opposite her.

Elain briefly wonders if he’s treating her like a scared fawn, trying not to startle it further.

The thought relaxes her into the performance slightly, even though she is utterly convinced he would see right through it.

“I was hoping you would tell me my future.”

“Of course”. Elain ignores the slight stutter in her voice and instead reaches for the ball, but she also notices the almost amused yet sceptical glint to his eyes, and reminds herself that the ordinary tricks won’t work on him. He likely knows all her secrets already, down to the fact that she once told a woman she would have grey hair within the year, just to smite the miserable hag.

Slowly, Elain extends her hand, meeting his eyes with some semblance of confidence for the first time this evening.

“If I might have your hand?”

“My hand?” Her eyes dart downwards briefly, catching the almost nervous flex of his fist. She raises her gaze again, not quite smiling, but softening her expression.

“Contact works best. Unless of course, you’d rather stare into a crystal ball for the next ten minutes”.

Wordlessly, he nods, lips twitching, and places his hand in hers. There’s no static shock, and there’s certainly no spark jumping between their fingertips, but the places where his skin touches her do burn. She swallows a lump in her throat, and readies to focus – only to catch the scars on his hand.

Elain tilts his hand carefully with her fingers, treating it like delicate china, and traces the longest scar. She feels him still almost immediately, but not even this stops the word from slipping between her teeth and out into the space between them.

“_Beautiful_”.

She hears the sharp intake of his breath, and though she knows it would be polite to release his hand, apologise, beg for his forgiveness, he doesn’t pull away – so neither does she. Elain looks up then, just in time to see his other hand reaching across the table, towards the edge of her veil. She wills herself not to freeze, to relax into the action – but watching him only makes it worse, so she closes her eyes and waits.

Feeling the fabric lift from her skin has always felt like a weight being lifted from her shoulders, but by someone else’s hand – by _his_ hand – Elain feels as though her whole body is light, ready to take flight at a moment’s notice. The faintest brush of a knuckle against her cheek has her opening her eyes, slowly. Time seems to have stopped, and though his face remains closed and neutral, Elain hopes she isn’t imagining the slight glimpse of awe in the parting of his lips and the flutter of his lashes.

“Let’s continue, shall we?”

“Yes. Let’s”.

Both sound breathless, and both look down to their joint hands.

Then Elain closes her eyes, and everything slips away.

Usually Elain moves gently into a vision, when it is controlled, like stepping into a lake or strolling through the country side, but this has her breathing quickly, body tense and unused to the speed. It is the crash of a carriage, or the racing of a horse.

Suddenly, she is still, watching as a field full of flower buds, extending beyond the horizon, begins to bloom. So distracted by the myriad of colours, Elain almost misses the shadows seeping between each stem, almost like tendrils. They caress the buds, willing them to open and bloom, and it is then that Elain realises the shadows, rather than causing the flowers to wilt, are doing the exact opposite. She takes one step in the direction of the field, desperate to touch the petals and feel the caress of the shadows herself but is dragged back to the present before she has the chance.

Her vision blurs slightly, black spots darting across the room wherever she looks. The man moves to reach across again, concern written across his features, but she simply waves him off, allowing herself a few moments before speaking.

“It’s fine, they can be aggressive sometimes. Just give me a moment.”

Awareness comes back in moments; the feel of silk against her skin, the lack of a veil, her heart thrumming in her chest and the brush of a callus against her knuckles. Elain blinks down at their joint hands, watching quietly as the man continues to comfort. When the burning along her skin and the butterflies in her stomach return, Elain knows she is back to normal.

Out of the corner of her eye, Elain notices slight movement. Despite the man before her keeping very still, his shadow seems to shift – shift towards her. If it hadn’t been for her vision prior, she would have dismissed it – but with everything that she’d seen…

Elain grips his hand firmly in hers, running her fingertips along his scars again, refusing to break his gaze.

“Might I ask your name?”

“Azriel.” He breaths.

Elain wants to speak it herself, taste the vowels on her tongue and press them against her teeth. So she does, and the sudden dip of his eyelids sends heat down to her gut.

“I’m Elain.” She pauses, before smiling softly. “I think we have much to discuss.”


End file.
